


Indulgence

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Saiyuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Archival Fic, Community: springkink, Don't copy to another site, Glove Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Hakkai gets caught staring.
Relationships: Cho Hakkai/Genjo Sanzo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

> Back to working on moving stuff over from the spambot...this one's from 2007, for a spingkink prompt: April 18, #9. Saiyuki, Sanzo/Hakkai: Hakkai has a thing for Sanzo's gloves - "All in your hands"

Hakkai isn't a smoker, doesn't have the habit of appreciation or any particular appreciation for the habit. Cleaning up after Gojyo has taken care of that; he suspects he'll be pouring a soup of stale beer and crumpled butts out of glasses until the day he dies, and the thought is both maddening and comforting at once.

All the same, watching Sanzo smoke is a guilty pleasure, one he tries not to indulge in too obviously. Sanzo smokes when he's angry, when he's stressed, when the beer is good and the food's decent and he has nothing better to do with his hands. It's Sanzo's hands that Hakkai watches--long-fingered, square-palmed, as strong and unexpectedly refined as the rest of him--not Sanzo's mouth, though it's certainly worth a second glance of its own. It's just that Sanzo's mouth isn't sheathed with black leather, supple as silk to the touch.

 _I should probably be grateful for that_ , Hakkai thinks, pushing the image from his mind--Sanzo's angry eyes glittering above a black gag--and forcing his eyes to settle elsewhere.

The room they've been given is small but comfortable, overlooking the pious local lord's vast orchards. Their host had asked no questions when Sanzo condescended to share quarters with one of his disciples, though a polite dance was engaged in by all until it was determined who the second occupant would be. From the crease of Sanzo's brows and the sharp, jerking flex of his wrist as he puffs away at the window, Sanzo's still outraged over the servants' unvoiced assumption that it would be Goku, not Hakkai.

Sitting tailor-fashion on one of the room's two beds, Hakkai drops his gaze to the shirt he holds and the needle poised in his fingers. The shirt is Gojyo's, and it's still salvageable for now, torn cloth falling prey to the keen edge of a youkai blade, not the uneven savagery of youkai claws. A few minutes' work, and it'll be good as new.

Sanzo huffs out a sigh written in smoke, leaning his shoulder against the window frame. His hand hovers near his mouth before covering it again for another drag, lingering there. Sanzo is shirtless, the robe of office discarded almost as soon as they entered the room, in threadbare old jeans that ride low on his hips and only stay on because they're too tight not to...and the gloves. Black leather cuts triangles across his palms, paints his arms from wrists to biceps, so rarely shed they've become a second skin. They're part of Sanzo's distinctive scent--tobacco, smoke, an odd whiff of something like incense and the dry musk of leather--and Hakkai wonders if Sanzo will taste of them as well. He wonders if the gloves will taste of Sanzo.

He also wonders how long he's been staring this time, how long Sanzo will stand there utterly motionless, eyeing him sidelong and incredulous, hand still shielding his mouth.

"Excuse me," Hakkai says instantly, dropping his eyes to his own hands again. "I was just thinking that the rest of us should find more durable clothes ourselves."

Sanzo pulls his hand away, wisps of smoke trailing dragonlike from the corners of his mouth until he shapes it into a word. "Bullshit," he says with a frown. It's not a particularly angry frown.

Hakkai looks up again, but he doesn't quite know what to say. Sanzo is usually more accommodating about accepting the occasional polite lie. Or so Hakkai thinks, though he finds he can't recall a single example in specific when he tries.

Sanzo doesn't seem angry or offended, merely inconvenienced, but he always looks like that. It's the same whether he's giving up the unwanted sports section of his paper to Gojyo or reloading to fire into a horde of youkai assassins. It's the stillness before the scowl that makes Hakkai feel like he's just done something wrong, only--

Sanzo actually uses the ashtrays Hakkai has taken to leaving at the man's elbow, though Sanzo never acknowledges the gesture in any other fashion. Now is no exception; the cigarette gets stubbed out in a heavy glass dish rather than against the window sill, Sanzo's fingers harsh and decisive, and then Sanzo is coming towards him. Though the priest is completely human, no match for Hakkai's unlooked-for strength, Hakkai feels a twinge of wariness regardless. Sanzo's face doesn't always change when he loses his temper, and even for a human, he hits hard.

The hand Sanzo lifts doesn't clench into a fist or angle for a backhand strike; it reaches for Hakkai's face and settles across his mouth, leather warm and dry against his lips. Sanzo doesn't say anything, bent over slightly, eyes sharp and glittering through the shaggy curtain of his bangs.

When Gojyo's shirt is plucked from his hands, Hakkai has enough sense to reach out blindly and feed the needle through a fold of the blankets before Sanzo pushes him flat. The hand never leaves his mouth, and when he drags in a hitched breath--Sanzo's other hand already working at the fastenings of his pants--the scent of skin and leather is overwhelming.

Hakkai doesn't scoot over when Sanzo sinks down to the bed, forcing the man to sit very close, his side and Sanzo's thigh pressed warmly together. Sanzo's face and neck are darker, but the rest of him is pale gold, paler against the black of his gloves. Hakkai wants to taste him, to trace a path with his tongue from Sanzo's wrist to the hard wings of his collarbones, just to know the difference. He settles for parting his lips as Sanzo pulls open his pants, licking deliberately from the heel of Sazno's palm to the cool ring at the base of the priest's longest finger.

Unusual at best, uncanny when he's at his worst, Sanzo's eyes go hot and hungry, an expression not quite like anything Hakkai has ever seen there before. He almost apologizes when Sanzo pulls his hand away, thinking he's crossed a line somewhere, only Sanzo reaches down, wraps his now-wet hand around Hakkai's cock, and _oh_. Slow, unhurried strokes. Hakkai wants to thrust up, rock his hips into Sanzo's hand, but he doesn't want to end this too quickly, even if it doesn't stay comfortable for long. The leather clings to his skin, no longer slick, and turns each pull rough. It troubles him a little that he likes that--it's easy to blame the youkai in him, and he does--but he's distracted from the discomfort when Sanzo raises his free hand to his own mouth.

Violet eyes catch his and hold them as Sanzo licks his palm, black leather gleaming wetly in the wake of his tongue. Hakkai can't strangle a groan fast enough, and it emerges as a growl, devoutly appreciative, as Sanzo switches hands. Clutching fistfuls of bedding, Hakkai tries to keep some measure of control, but Sanzo gives him a knowing look and leans over to lick the head of Hakkai's cock, tongue darting between his own fingers, shameless and messy and completely unconcerned about it. It's exactly how Hakkai has always suspected Sanzo would approach sex if he ever gave in to it, and he isn't disappointed.

He isn't going to last long, either. He knows this even before Sanzo reaches up again, runs callused fingertips over Hakkai's lips and pushes them inside. Or maybe Hakkai closes his mouth around them himself; it's hard to tell, but he appreciates their muffling presence, the salt and cordite taste, and manages not to bite down as he comes.

Sanzo sits back to watch his face, not the spasms of his cock, but the man's hand is still wrapped tight around the base of his erection, ring digging in slightly, strangely appealing. It takes Hakkai a few beats to catch his breath, and he wonders in that moment whether he should question the bored air Sanzo draws around him like the sutra, the unexpected competence of his grip, his mouth.

He's released before he can ask, Sanzo rising from the bed and making a beeline for the window where he left his cigarettes. One is tapped out of the pack before Hakkai even sits up, and Sanzo is abruptly Sanzo again, eyes a million miles away, no doubt seeing a castle they only know by rumor.

"Sanzo?" he asks anyway, unsurprised when the glance Sanzo flicks him is cool, almost unfriendly.

"Don't make me trade you for the monkey," Sanzo says, half a jest and half a threat, completely serious. "I'd like to get some _sleep_ tonight."

"If you insist," Hakkai replies, deciding not to push. He'll ask Gojyo first, in a roundabout way so that Gojyo won't feel jealous if Sanzo has only just now made the exception; he'll keep a closer eye on Goku for clues as well. Just in case. "We're all in your hands, of course."

He gets a sharper look for that, but he's used to those. It's easy to counter with a serene smile, despite the fact that his pants are gaping open and the fall of his now-stained shirt doesn't completely hide the satisfied length of his cock. The sheer aplomb this takes isn't lost on Sanzo, and there's actual respect in the priest's eyes as Sanzo huffs at him and turns away.

Hakkai will clean himself up in a moment, will go to inquire politely about laundry services and won't bat a lash if anyone asks why he wants to see to it himself. He is a master at letting people think what they like.

Sanzo, for instance, probably believes quite earnestly at the moment that if he sleeps tonight he'll be doing it alone.


End file.
